


Forty

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s14e10 Nihilism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: It's just a number.





	Forty

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сороковник / Forty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17687474) by [impala65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impala65/pseuds/impala65)



Dean closes the door, leaving the muted sounds of conversation behind as he shuts the world out. He finds the light switch on the wall by touch and flicks it on, walks over to the mirror and leans in to study his face.

Nothing’s changed.

He doesn’t feel different. And really, why should he? It’s just a number; it won’t suddenly make his wrinkles deeper than they already are, make his joints ache more than they already do.

But it was a nice celebration, he thinks as he changes into his sleeping clothes and starts to brush his teeth. There was pie and beer and cheeseburgers from Dean's favorite burger joint in the area. There was Sam, Cas and Jack, with stupid hats on their heads and big smiles on their faces, hugging Dean and clapping him on the shoulder, saying things like, “Here’s to another forty.”

Like this is his first forty.

There was a celebration too, in Hell. No pies, burgers or party hats, but there was firelight and Alastair wrapping himself around Dean to croon into his ear, “Come on now, don’t be shy. Don’t you like your present? Just wait till you hear her scream, I picked her special just for you. Now be a good boy and give me a kiss.”

He shakes his head, as if he could shake the memory off too, and rinses his mouth, spits water and toothpaste, watches it go down the drain.

Then comes his new nightly ritual of staring at his reflection in the mirror and repeating the mantra, "It's just you," over Michael’s incessant pounding and shouting. He’s getting used to it, and he’s not sure that’s a good sign. But getting used to things is kind of what he does.

He slides under the blankets, and stares at the ceiling.

He used to wonder what this day would feel like. The day when he’d finally be alive for as long as he’d been in Hell. The day when he’d be able to think, _Tomorrow's a new day, a clean slate, the scales set even again, instead of tipping against me._ The shadow of Hell receding, meaning less and less with every day spent topside, until it vanishes into nothing.

Well, that was the idea, anyway. Stupid.

Nothing’s changed.

Alastair’s voice is still as clear inside his head as ever, the taste of blood on his tongue too strong to be washed away with toothpaste or food or even booze. He still wakes up in the middle of the night covered in cold sweat, heart beating so hard it’s like he's got a drum in his chest; his nightmares aren't going anywhere, he’s just learned to live with them, hide them better.

“Come on, Dean. You didn’t really think you’d get rid of me so easily, did you?” Alastair sneers gleefully. “After all that sweet time we’ve spent together? I don’t think so.”

Alastair’s right, of course; he usually is. After all, Dean’s topside years and Hell years may be finally even now, but Alastair has been the most steady and constant presence in his life, by far.

“That’s right, grasshopper,” Alastair chuckles. “Half a century already. So here’s to another fifty.”

 

 

 


End file.
